


Donatella

by williamastankova



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Will, Bottom Will Graham, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Dress Up, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, M/M, Masturbation, POV Will Graham, Sex, Smut, Top Hannibal, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 08:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18961198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Will's an attractive man. It's undeniable, not only from how he looks physically, but to how he manages to attract attention - male and female - everywhere he goes. This is sometimes quite impressive, because Will really does have to put in minimal effort to look... delectable. Even with his ancient glasses and un-tailored clothing, it's hard to miss how his body curves in the right places, and how his curls - longer now - bounce as he works.Even still, Hannibal has the urge to dress him up, and Will finally gives him the change.7(tldr; Hannibal chooses some clothes for Will, and they both really, really like them. Smut ensues)





	Donatella

Hannibal's perfectionist mind spews the idea out one day, and then it's unavoidable. At first, it starts an argument, with Will taking offence to Hannibal's suggestion that he update his wardrobe. Hannibal, normally quite the people-charmer, seems rather at a loss at this, because he's so used to being in control of every situation or at the very least not caring about the control, but now it's different. He all but begs Will to forgive him, then elaborates carefully on what he means.

"Your clothes are... lovely," he begins safely, eyeing Will all the while to see how his expression changes, "I only mean that, while we're away, you might like to try another style. I could help you, if you'd like."

Will's eyebrow quirks. "Help me? It sounds like we're on vacation, Hannibal, not two cannibals on the run."

"You can see it however you want to," Hannibal feels the corners of his mouth tip upwards, bemused, "Would you like to give it a try?"

Will ponders privately for a moment, then nods slowly. "Yeah, sure. Why not."

Hannibal's perhaps a little too pleased as he begins bouncing about like a child on Christmas Day, wondering where to start first. First and foremost, he orders Will (who's now under his control) to come with him to get his hair cut. Begrudgingly, Will follows, and lets Hannibal do the talking to the French barber, like he's a child with his father. The man, who has a dark, ornate moustache, nods, then gets to work.

Will watches the man begin to chop haphazardly at his hair. He's not exactly worried, not yet anyway - heaven knows he's got enough hair to go around - but he's a little unconvinced. The man, though he seems professional, is hacking away at his mane, and Will can't help but notice the chunks falling to the floor, painting the tiles with dark curls and dancing about when the door opens to let the next customer in. It oddly bemuses Will.

Meanwhile, Hannibal and the man are engaged in a conversation Will can only understand minimal of, thanks to his compulsory high school French lessons. They're talking about his hair, to begin with, then the conversation switches to the two of them, though Hannibal's speaking far too fast for Will to understand much more, and he catches nothing more specific than that. He sighs, sitting a little further down into his seat, figuring they'll be there a while.

It reminds Will of watching the old ladies from his town (every one he moved to, as he grew up) in the hairdresser's windows, because suddenly he's being tipped back and his hair is being washed, rinsed, and the process is repeated. He momentarily feels like he's drowning, but then it begins to feel nice, then he even misses the sensation when the man's hands leave him, and he's being brought back up to sit in front of the mirror.

Will chooses to blank out a lot of the rest, just watching absently as the man dries and styles his hair. He takes brief notes so that he can recreate the style if he likes it, and then a chill running down his spine distracts him. God, he's forgotten how cold it gets when your neck is exposed.

By the end of it all, he's actually looking pretty good. His hair is much shorter, more like it was when he was released from prison and he began looking more like an actual person again. He smiles at the man kindly, who all but ignores him as Hannibal pays, and then they're leaving. Really, he should learn some more French, because at this rate - with Hannibal paying for everything, being with him at all times, and ushering him about the city - people are going to incorrectly conclude some things about them.

Next, Hannibal somehow seamlessly gets them into a store - an expensive one, with more suits than Will thinks he's ever seen in his life - and he's whispering into Will's ear, avoiding breaking the silence of the shop, telling him to pick something nice and flattering for himself.

Then again, as soon as Will finds a shirt he likes, he shows it off to Hannibal, whose face says it all. He's sure he doesn't mean to come off so meanly, but Will's heart does sink just the littlest bit as he folds the shirt back up and puts it back where he found it. Whatever, Hannibal will probably pick something anyway. Will really needn't be there, because he's only being humiliated.

He resigns as Hannibal thrusts some items into his hands, then presumably tells the cloakroom attendant that he wants to try them on. He slips into a changing room, puts the clothes on the provided bench, and takes just a moment to run his fingers through his fresh hair, watching himself in the mirror and smiling at the sight. _Well,_  he thinks, _maybe Hannibal does have universal taste, after all._

He drops his own eye in the mirror and turns to the clothing pile. He fishes about for a bit, deciding he doesn't really like some of the patterns and such, so there's no point in trying them on. He picks up a pair of black trousers - just his type, plain and simple - and makes sure they're his size. Amazingly, they're exactly right. He pulls off his battered jeans, then slips them on.

They feel like silk against his skin. He understands in that moment why Hannibal always opts for the finer things in life, because there really is a difference in quality and overall sensation. He even thinks for a moment they're more comfortable, though that might just be part of the indoctrination process - an incantation dripped into his mind by the outrageously expensive clothing.

There's a shirt that catches his eye. It's not weird and lairy, but it's got a bit of a pattern to it. It's all black, but part of it is made from velvet, forming the repeated shape of flowers on it. It immediately attracts him, and he rids himself of his old t-shirt in favour of it. As the fabric glides over his hand, it goes easily over his arm and up to his shoulders, not fitting uncomfortably on his broad frame. He likes it, but then as soon as he looks down to fasten the buttons, he finds a strange contraption alongside them.

There's a dangling ribbon, attached to one side of the shirt. Then he can see three or four buttons beneath it, two above it, and suddenly he notices a hole in one side of the shirt. He begins to panic, wondering just what exactly he's meant to do with this, and considers shouting for Hannibal, but it seems the man has already read his mind.

"Will?" Hannibal calls from outside of the curtain, "Do you need any assistance?"

Will would normally chuckle at how formal Hannibal sounds, and how much he seems like a shop-worker. Now, however, he feels like he's choking, and he's sweating just a little, and he first nods before realising Hannibal can't see him. Goodness, he's become a mess. Is this how a human melts?

"Uh, yeah," he says intelligently, "If you wouldn't mind."

"Of course not," Hannibal says before drawing aside the curtain, just enough to let himself slip inside, then it falls shut again behind him. He takes a calm moment to assess the situation, then he's taking a step closer to Will, eyes on the fastening of the shirt. Will sucks in a breath, then takes to unnecessary explanation.

"Sorry, I've just never really had to-" Hannibal's hands grasp his own for a heartbeat, then he's being batted away the next. He moves, giving Hannibal the reins, and watches as the man's hands delicately grasp the ribbon, slipping it through the small hole in the opposite side of the shirt, then he's impossibly closer as he reaches around Will's middle to find another hidden ribbon at the back. Will doesn't think he breathes once in this encounter.

He can only watch dumbly as Hannibal ties a firm knot with the two ribbons, drawing in prettily at his waist, then he runs his hands lightly down Will's sides, checking it's not too tight. Hannibal looks at him, asking him verbally when his actions don't quite manage to speak for him. "Is that alright, Will?"

Will's fried mind doesn't quite grasp what he's asking, nor what he's asking it about. He just nods, letting out a little 'mhm' sound, then Hannibal has dropped his eye and is fumbling for the buttons, putting them through the corresponding holes. Then, like a pretty China doll, Will's being spun around to look at himself in the mirror once again.

He looks... good. Beyond good, actually, but he can't really focus on himself as he feels Hannibal's hands rest atop his shoulders, leaning his head in to the back of his head, nearing his ear, and Will's brain rings, full of static, as the doctor hums, "You look wonderful. Good enough to eat."

It seems that Will has a fashion sense of his own, because the velvet-silk shirt matches his black pants perfectly. Well, okay, maybe that's not the hardest thing in the world, considering black is just about the only colour - shade? - that goes with everything, but that's not the point. The point is that he looks good, and Hannibal - from the way he's watching him so intently - seems to think so, too.

As quickly as he came, Hannibal's gone. Out of the room, telling Will that he should get dressed into his normal things and they can be done for the day. Will concurs, but thinks about what else could come. Perhaps cologne? After all, he does need to get rid of that ship-bottle one, that's haunted him even across continents. Shoes will perhaps be another day, too, but he doesn't think that's the most important part. Then again, he's been wrong before.

The journey home is a quiet one. They have to get two buses to get them there, and the most they speak is when Will asks which way the ticket gets scanned (he doesn't think he'll ever learn that) and Hannibal tells him. The older man looks brooding, Will notes as he watches him inconspicuously, as he admires the world outside of the window. The buses are both relatively full, and Will's afraid that if they don't speak, somebody might assume he's alone and try to spark up a conversation in French with him. He loathes when that happens, but it's not likely he'll do much about it.

Once they get off of the second connecting bus, they begin the walk home, at a strolling pace. He takes time to watch Hannibal, to try to read his behaviour, and tries to draw a conclusion about his behaviour. Once he finds this attempt to be in vain, he shakes it off and instead thinks about how badly he wants to get back and rid himself of the dreaded old clothing, instead adorning himself with the finer garments Hannibal had essentially gifted him with. He instinctively runs a hand through his cut hair at the thought.

He's the first one over the threshold, and he's ready - bag in hand - to run off and change, only when he attempts to do so there's a firm grip on his wrist, holding him back. In his haste, he's gained enough momentum that when he's pulled back, he ends up spinning a little as he does so, which makes him feel dizzy. It doesn't really matter anyway, though, because either way he'd end up flying into Hannibal's chest - which he does - and coming face-to-face with the man himself.

Part of him wants to open his mouth and say something, but then there's something so clearly different that he's afraid his words will confuse them both and ruin whatever moment they were having. He stays quiet, and he's rather quite glad he does so when Hannibal casts a quick look at his lips before he kisses him square on the mouth. He drops the bag on the floor.

Acting on instict, his arms wrap around the back of Hannibal's neck, and he doesn't miss when the doctor's hands come to rest at the base of his spine. He shivers, letting Hannibal kiss him as he pleases, simply happy to be in the moment. Perhaps he should be ashamed that he assumed the submissive role so quickly, but he's not - he's not sorry at all.

He's ready to give himself over to Hannibal completely (which, in and of itself, is a terrifying thought) when the man suddenly pulls away from him. He watches him closely with dark, hooded eyes, then the hands on Will's back are gone. They run tentatively through his cropped hair, but the smooth motion is over soon enough - far too soon - and he's left, standing alone, confused, aroused, and utterly at a loss.

**

Will still hasn't quite managed to regain himself. It's been a couple of days, and it seems that Hannibal's insistent that they continue as though whatever had happened actually hadn't occurred, but this only made Will feel worse. His mind fell sick with worry, thinking constantly that it was something he had done - or not done - and Hannibal was suddenly repulsed and/or disappointed by him. It was an even worse thought to think that Hannibal had thought Will didn't want him, because it was so dreadfully far from the truth. In fact, every night since the incident, the only way Will's been able to sleep is by imagining the feel of Hannibal on him again - touching him, only not pulling away this time, only drawing closer - then the night takes the rest into its sleepy, slow, intoxicating hands.

Still, he has to pretend whenever he sees Hannibal that none of this happens. In his cocoon, he has to be careful. He dares not step outside of his comfort zone though fear of upsetting the two of them, equally or disproportionately. In doing this, he rejects any change, and sticks strictly to dressing as he had before the incident, and acting as he had done, too. Part of him wishes he could forget it all, but then he can't really say he didn't enjoy it.

In the back of his mind, in some deep crevice of his memory, there lies a single thought about the clothes they had bought. His hair, obviously, is still short - it hasn't been long enough for that fact to change, even if he wanted it to - and the intricate shirt lies in his closet somewhere.

He's only reminded of it one day on the off chance that he's at a loss for something to wear. He's rooting about, having put his usual jeans and shirt in the wash, and he finds the buried articles. His breath catches in his throat, and he can feel it linger there. He eyes the velvet-silk shirt, and the pressed black trousers. He runs a single hand over them, considering putting them on - just for a moment, even - but then shakes his head, ridding himself of the thought, and deciding he's better off without that drama in his life.

A couple of days later, however, after he's returning from a day in town, he enters a silent house. He's somewhat unnerved, and readies himself for a confrontation, but needs not do so. He slips soundlessly through the hallways, casting looks into each room, until he reaches his one. He senses something different immediately, but can't quite place a finger on it, until he pushes the door open and catches his gaze on his bed.

There, atop of the silk covers, is his matching silk shirt and trousers. He's about to act confused, but then he sees there's a small slip of paper on top of them, and he decides to investigate before drawing any of his own, baseless conclusions.

He leaves his door ajar as he steps to the centre of the room, nearing the bed, and pauses, hovering above it. It takes his mind longer than it should to process what the calligraphy-esque writing on the paper reads, but once he does a cold shiver runs down his spine, followed by a burning hot flush.

'You never tried these on. What a waste'

It's simple. Even though it's teasing, it's so plain, yet Will knows exactly who it's from (well, he should hope he does, considering he lives with the man) and it's having such a great effect on him. His eyes shut involuntarily, then he's shot into overdrive. He moves the paper and grabs the clothing, almost ripping the cheap fabric of his t-shirt in his haste to remove it. He flings it somewhere across the room and slips his arms into the softer material one.

He takes his time dressing himself up in it. He feels like pretty China - the delicate kind he had told Hannibal that Jack saw him as so very long ago now - and it almost feels wrong to touch himself. He runs a hand over his chest before fastening the belt and doing up the buttons. He slips his legs out of his old jeans and into his new pants, doing up his fly and button. Then, slowly, he raises his head to look at himself in the full-length mirror.

He can't deny how he looks, and he looks good. He's never liked to flatter himself, because he's never really felt he was anything particularly special, but now, he might just be inflating his own ego. He can't resist when he gets the sudden urge to run his hands down his sides, feeling how the belt dips in at his waist, just enough to be considered a well-shaped male. He can't stop himself from going further, either.

When his hands reach his hips, he breaks his gaze from his own reflection and looks to the door. He's alone, he's sure, so there's nothing wrong with this - with any of it. And, if he takes it upon himself to undo the button and zip of his trousers and slip a hand inside to tease himself, whose business is that but his own?

Actually, to be completely honest, once he'd begun teasing himself, he found himself incapable of stopping. His mouth instantly fell open, and he needed more and more, like some untamed beast, born to destroy and devour. For a moment, he borderline blacked out, but when he became fully aware once more he was lying on his bed, legs and knees spread, pleasuring himself without shame.

He was so close. So, so unbelievably close that, when he heard the front door go once again, signalling Hannibal had returned home, he didn't stop. Couldn't stop, maybe, because every sensation was so great and influential, and as soon as he heard Hannibal call out for him, call out his name, he knew he was a goner.

Spilling onto himself, thankfully minimal getting on his trousers, Will felt empty in the best way possible. He felt like he'd never been so relieved in his lifetime, like every other time he'd done that had never been quite so good and fulfilling, like something about the clothes being a gift from Hannibal had an effect on him - a severe one, and one he couldn't ignore. He managed to tuck himself away and roughly clean himself up with a spare piece of fabric - perhaps old underwear, though he couldn't be sure - before he heard Hannibal climbing the stairs.

 _Alas_  he thought, _he'd prevented himself from jumping on Hannibal then and there._

Hannibal, however, did not go to him. He simply retreated to his own room, Will heard the single creak before Hannibal's door shut, leaving the pair of them so dreadfully alone, and Will still excited, despite his voyeuristic escapade. Maybe he was just as messed up as he had always believed.

**

Will's in one of those moods again. Granted, he's always in those moods as of late, but now it's become dire. So dire, in fact, that now he's gone out on a limb, and he knows he should feel ridiculous. His logic is this: Hannibal likes his (arguably) feminine clothing. Maybe, then, Hannibal _is_  straight, but in these times where they can only trust each other, the best alternative it Will looking like a woman, or at least to the best of his abilities?

He knows it wouldn't hold up in a court of law, but then again that's not why he's here. He's here to get away from all of that, and so when he decides to go into town alone and pick up make-up from a local pharmacy (he prays they speak English and don't find it strange that he doesn't speak any proper French, too, which they don't seem to). He pays for the items, delivers a line which he thinks means 'have a nice day' to throw them off of his scent, and leaves.

Once he gets back home, he's shaking. He's excited, of course, because this is something he's never done, and he's always liked small changes in routine. He's terrified, too, however, because what if this doesn't work? What if this is all but a strange idea from a desperate mind? What if when he seeks Hannibal, the doctor simply looks at him once, then never again? What then?

He pushes these unanswerable questions from his mind, deciding there's only one way to find out. He begins first with his foundation, then works up the layers. He's not a master at it by any means, but he's better than he supposes most men would be, because he's watched so many women (lovers, relatives, et cetera) throughout his life doing this. By the time he's painting his lips rouge, blood-red, he's done everything but put his shirt on.

Sat there, looking at himself in the mirror, only in his trousers, he does look foolish, at least in his own eyes. The make-up isn't his issue, but the flatness of his chest and only very slight outward dip of his hips makes him sigh. He puts down the lipstick, and reaches for his shirt - the one he'd bought with Hannibal - on his bed.

He enjoys slipping it on, but doesn't look at himself this time. He waits until it's closed, and he's about to tie to ribbon into a pretty little bow. He ties it tight, accentuating his figure, as though he really were a woman. Perhaps not one in a business-setting, though, because as he looks at himself as he does up his buttons, he looks sultry. He looks seductive, as he had intended to, and it makes him smile. How could Hannibal, or anybody, resist?

He didn't go quite as far as to purchase heels, because if this plan were to fall through he'd never wear them again. Perhaps he could donate them to a woman or a charity or something along those lines, but his feet were hardly the dainty, pretty feet most of the women he'd seen in France had. He decided against it, ultimately, and simply opted to slip around in some black, gender-neutral socks.

He found it newly hard to breathe, but not to the point where he felt lightheaded and like he might lose consciousness at any moment. He breathed steadily, hand locked on the knob of his door, and then swung it open, the hallway overflowing like a chest of opportunity. He began to walk.

He assumed he'd find Hannibal in his room, where he had been so often as of late. He was wrong. As he poked his head into the room, he found nothing. A still, silent room lay before him, and he briefly considered going inside and waiting for Hannibal, but he wasn't feeling quite that patient. He slipped back out of the room and continued down the hallway.

He stuck his head into the study next, expecting to find Hannibal hard at work, drawing or writing at his desk, but he wasn't. Will began to grow worried, but pushed down this fear, burying it instead with excitement. This was the chase, even if he'd rather have the roles reversed, it was still new and interesting, and he went on down the hall.

He knew Hannibal was home. He had heard him return shortly after he had himself, though he didn't know where he had gone in the first place. They hadn't spoken very much recently, so as Will painted his face he was sure Hannibal wouldn't interrupt him and spoil the surprise. Now, though, he wished dearly he'd paid more attention to where Hannibal had stopped, because this would grow tiring eventually, even if the hunt was fun for now.

Next, he took a step down the stairs. Something unexpected washed over him: it wasn't fear, but it was something akin to that. It was as though the single creak had given away his whole plan, like Hannibal had located him now, too. Still, he pressed onward, taking more and more steps, until after what felt like an eternity he reached the bottom landing. He cast his eyes around their living room, and there, sat on his armchair reading a French book, sat Hannibal.

"Hannibal," his breathy, wanton voice gave him away. If Hannibal couldn't tell how much Will wanted him, then he was, against all prior notions, a complete and utter idiot.

"Will," Hannibal replied more solidly, having not yet looked up at him, "How are you?"

"Good," Will attempted to keep up his seductive, flirty tone. It wasn't hard to do, consider he was looking over at Hannibal - the man he had done all of this for - who remained blissfully unaware. Until, then, he didn't.

Hannibal looked absently up at him, smiling. Then, as his eyes fixed on the man, his plastic smile dropped. He paused momentarily, then inserted the bookmark into his book, setting it aside, and rose from his chair.

Will had felt this before. The tingling sensation as Hannibal drew nearer to him, and today - as with the last, long ago - he reacted exactly the same. Hannibal crossed the room, coming closer and closer, and when he was within a meter of him, Will let out a sigh and rolled his head back, unable to contain his pleasure at being able to sense, feel and smell, the man who had been seemingly avoiding him since the last time. Perhaps his hypothesis was right, after all.

"You look lovely, Will."

The reaction was sweeter than Will had intended - hoped for, even, because he'd ideally wanted to be ravished then and there - but it still send goosebumps all around his body. Hannibal took a step forwards, bringing them even closer together, and Will took one back. Immediately, he hit the wall, firmly enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. Hannibal, however, didn't look concerned, and Will couldn't worry about himself then.

Will wanted to say something, wanted to further tease Hannibal, or to let him know how agonising it was to wait for him for so long. Despite this, Will's mouth refused to open. It didn't run dry, become sandy and afraid, but he couldn't speak. He was afraid he'd say something wrong, and Hannibal would refuse to be so close to him ever again, and he just couldn't have that.

In his silence, he watched Hannibal watching him. Hannibal studied his face, each dip of its structure and every artificial flick he had added with the makeup. He reached out a hand, and Will noticed his gaze had glued to his red lips. The older man's hand came to rest atop his cheek, the blush of which was not fake, for he felt hot and bothered in that moment. Hannibal's thumb stroked the soft skin there, and he himself let out a small sigh, stepping closer once again.

Hannibal smirked, then bent down to his ear and whispered, "I could have you right here, you know."

He pulled back, so that Will could meet his eye. Teasingly, Will responded, "Is that a threat?"

The devilish smile that spread across Hannibal's features was frustrating, in the best possible way. He tipped his head to the side as he considered Will's words, then said, "Not quite."

Will parted his lips, taking a sharp breath in, ready to retort, only stopped by Hannibal dipping his head and kissing him deftly on the mouth. Breathless, having his air stolen from him, all Will can do is bring a hand to Hannibal's hair and bury his fingers in the soft, short, light-blond locks there. He lets out a small moan into Hannibal's mouth.

He feels Hannibal move. Tentative in every other way, it's a pleasant surprise when Hannibal's hand on his face slips down to his throat, resting there. He doesn't put any pressure, but it makes Will feel giddy anyway. Once he realises what he's doing, it seems, he drops his hand to Will's waist. Will, on the other hand, is having none of that.

He breaks the kiss and drops his gaze to Hannibal's hand. He interlaces their fingers, then meets Hannibal's eye - sees the red lipstick spread across his mouth, feeling proud - as he brings the doctor's hands to his throat again, and prompts him to apply pressure there with his own hand. He doesn't miss the flickering in Hannibal's eyes, nor how he instantly looks predatory. Will squirms under the gaze, and he adores how the sensation of Hannibal's fingers tight around his throat feels.

He knows his eyes go hooded. He knows this is what makes Hannibal dip back in again, less soft and more desperate this time. He hopes his make-up is still intact, because if it's not this could all be over very soon, and he just can't have that. He needs to feel Hannibal like this, all the time. He needs to have him pressed so close against his chest that he feels like they've become conjoined, and he'd die without him. He needs Hannibal, in every way.

Hannibal's free hand comes down to his bow of ribbon, and he undoes it like he's done it a hundred times before. Will shouldn't feel any jealousy at this, but he does. He thinks about how many women Hannibal's done this to - how many women he's had like he's got Will at the moment, pressed up against a wall with his hand on his throat, undressing him because he knows nobody would ever dream of rejecting him. Will becomes consumed by this thought, and it makes him bite Hannibal's lip - an action that he instantly regrets, because it sends Hannibal away from him.

The tie of Will's blouse is still in Hannibal's hand. The man's gaze looks heavy, but he looks beyond shocked, like he'd never anticipated Will doing such a thing. He has to admit that he feels bad, but there's still that green-sickness part of him that is proud of what he's done. He watches as the first droplet of blood rises from Hannibal's skin, but the man doesn't move a muscle to dab the spot. He runs his tongue along his lip, catching the blood, not once breaking Will's eye.

There's a silent instant in which Will thinks anything could happen. He's primarily expecting Hannibal to shove him off, to give up speaking to him again - womanly or not - and he's ready but not willing to accept they might never be like this again. He even thinks Hannibal might use his leverage on his throat to choke him, to have it done with, but then, in the blink of an eye, Hannibal's hand on his throat is gone, and it's helping him undo the rest of his shirt, and no sooner is it on the ground is Hannibal's mouth on him, biting and marking and kissing and - oh, it's glorious.

His arms wrap around Hannibal's head. His fingers lace into Hannibal's hair again, pulling him closer, and the man continues marking Will up like he's something to be desired. Like a rabid animal, Hannibal doesn't stop touching Will _everywhere_  he can, and Will welcomes it. More than welcomes it, in fact, and he's pretty sure he's the one to push off of the wall and begin walking them to the nearest couch, chair, table, whatever they hit first.

Will spends the next half hour shaking, unable to contain himself, then the rest of the night he sleeps for. He doesn't really want to wake up in the morning, because he's going to look at himself and he'll be his regular, ordinary self. His makeup will have wiped off, and he'll be undeniably Will again, and he's not too sure Hannibal wants that.

And, when he does inevitably wake up, he casts a look to the other side of his bed, and finds it, as expected, cold and empty.

 _Yeah,_  he thinks solemnly, his eyes glassing over as he looked to the ceiling, _that's about right._

**

It doesn't end there. To his surprise (admittedly, some planning and coercion did go into it), the next morning when he gets up and does his makeup, as soon as he steps out of his doorway he's cornered by Hannibal, who's back to kissing him again. It starts off sweet, as it had done the last time, but slowly diverges. Hannibal's biting his lip, running his hands down his taut sides, kissing off the freshly-applied lipstick. Will perhaps should be angry, but he can't quite manage to get there before Hannibal's carrying him, legs around his waist, back into his bedroom.

It happens again, and again. Will begins to marvel at the power of makeup, because seriously, he's never had such great sex in his entire life. He's never been pushed up against a wall so much, either, which is a new, welcome occurrence. Once they're done for the thousandth time, Hannibal is quick to re-dress and rush downstairs, presumably to return to whatever he had been doing - before Will, of course. Will's mind is swimming as he sits up, bare naked now, and wraps a sheet around himself as he moves to look in the mirror.

There, his reflection stares back at him. His hair is unkempt to say the least, sticking out everywhere all at once, but that's not what he's focusing on now. He doesn't make to brush it down, because there, he witnesses himself looking simultaneously the most beautiful and the least appealing he's ever looked. He's wearing the makeup still, but it's all smudged and a mess. He's lost every ounce of femininity he had, and he resigns and realises this is probably why Hannibal got up and left without a word.

He dresses dismally, purposefully avoiding the now destroyed clothes he'd bought with Hannibal, not wanting to be further distracted, led away from his melancholy mindset, by the man touching him and breathing against him, all hot, like Will's something he wants. He feels sick with himself, like he's tricked a dog or something. Hannibal doesn't want him - not really, because he's not a woman. Hannibal's become confused, associating him with female things, and Will's gone and taken advantage of it. He should be ashamed, and he is.

It's not like he _wants_  to take it back, he monologues internally as he exits his room and begins to make his way downstairs, but for how it happened, he wishes he could do it all again, in a different way. He should have just come out and told Hannibal that he wanted to speak with him, instead of playing mind games and purchasing silly clothing and silly makeup. He'd never be Hannibal's type, if it weren't for these materialistic things.

The stairs creak as he walks down them, but he doesn't care. It's hardly like he's trying to seduce Hannibal again, considering he's scrubbed off any remainder of his makeup, leaving him bare-faced and manly again. He is who he's always been, who he's always felt like he is, who he wants Hannibal to remember he is, even if it'd break his heart. He can't live a lie any longer.

He finds Hannibal in the kitchen, cooking something or other. He doesn't want to ask, because that'd be plunging them both into a conversation they're probably not ready for, which he doesn't want to do. He doesn't want to be responsible for any more mishaps in Hannibal's life, so he remains quiet as he turns on their new kettle and waits for the water to boil.

"We should go shopping again, Will."

There it is. The initiating sentence, and it's just about the worst one Will could have imagined. It's there to taunt him, to show him that Hannibal still wants him to be who he's been pretending to be all along. It's the universe's way of punishing him for his evil deeds, and now's the time for him to turn it all off and tell the whole, honest truth.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he doesn't look at Hannibal as he speaks, instead opting to watch the water heating up, "I think I'm okay with my old clothes for now."

He doesn't mean to sound rude, but he does anyway, and Hannibal notices. He stops his movements, bringing his cooking to a simmer so it doesn't burn their house down as they talk. He eyes Will closely.

"Are you feeling okay, Will?" The man sounds genuinely concerned for him, and it's almost a shock to hear him speak his name; he thought he might have forgotten it in their rendezvous, choosing something more womanly for him in its place.

"Yeah, I'm... fine," Will says this word carefully, knowing the connotations it carries. Hannibal can take it however he so wishes to.

That, apparently, is in the negative way. He crosses the kitchen, feet moving quickly, soundless on their pristine tile floor. He looks tentatively at Will, who still refuses to look at him, then stretches out his arm, extending the fingers on his hand to grasp Will by his jaw. His action does not force Will to look at him, but implores him to do so. He does.

"Will," there it is again, his name that seems so foreign to him now, "I want you to talk to me."

"I can't," Will shakes his head, releasing himself from Hannibal's grasp. He feels melodramatic, but something in him makes him add, "I don't want to."

Hannibal's gaze does not drop from him. The doctor watches him still, until Will looks back at him. Hannibal must see the fear of rejection in his eyes, because he lets out a sigh that leaves him looking deflated. He speaks once more.

"If you can't, or you don't want to," he's sure to add Will's additional words onto his reiteration, emphasising how he's listening, or rather how idiotic Will sounds, "I'll be here. I'll always be here."

Will finds that he can't look away from Hannibal, and then the latter does something rather unexpected: in one swift motion, he leans forward and presses his lips to Will's. Will's unpainted, chapped, man's lips. And, afterwards, he looks Will into his eyeliner-less eye, and caresses his un-blushed cheek.

"But..." Will stutters intelligently, "I thought you didn't want me, for me."

Hannibal looks genuinely taken aback by this. The hand gently rubbing Will's cheek stops, but doesn't move away. He looks Will in the eye, his gaze kind and sincere, and tells him, "I'll always want you, Will. However you are."

Will feels his eyes begin to burn, but he refuses to cry. To distract himself, he raises his own hand to rest atop Hannibal's, keeping him there, finally feeling able to enjoy the touch, because Hannibal wants _him_. Not another, not a woman, not Alana, not anybody. He wants him, Will Graham, and he can have him, however he wants.

It's something Will hasn't thought for the longest time. His mind begins whirring, the part that's been unused for so many years now, and he's immobile when he tries to stop it. He can only listen as the turning of the cogs in his brain slowly but surely begin to make the sound of words, forming one sentence, a mantra, repeating it like a prayer. Then, as his lips begin to betray him, he starts to say it aloud, finally feeling safe to expose himself in such a way.

"I love you," he whispers at first, then repeats it louder again, "I love you."

Hannibal's steeled features soften. He looks warm, at home, comfortable. He looks at Will like there's nobody else, like there'll never be anybody else, like he's the only one. And, Will can say now, Hannibal decidedly recognises that he is, indeed, a 'he'. Will sighs, thanking whoever and whatever that he doesn't have to feel guilty for this gentle sin anymore.

The response is slow. Will, at first, isn't even sure if it's coming at all, but then Hannibal's parted lips form words of their own, ones he'd never dreamed of hearing, ones he can't remember hearing from anybody, ever.

"I love you too, Will."

He wants to kiss Hannibal, now that he's allowed to, and never stop. He wants to touch him, to feel the sensations of Hannibal touching him in a new way. He wants them to live together forever, to live as killers, cannibals, 'murder husbands', whatever it is. He just wants them to be them, forever: Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. And, he smiles at the sudden epiphany, that just might be their future.

 __ __ _Well,_ he considers privately, concluding,  _there's only one way to find out._


End file.
